


Cut!

by Sherloki (peppersasen)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asperger Syndrome, Autism Spectrum, Family Feels, Gen, Genderqueer Character, Other, Sexual Frustration, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppersasen/pseuds/Sherloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finally meets Sherrinford Holmes, the third Holmes brother, after Moriarty plants Mycroft and Sherlock’s long-lost brother on the train Sherlock and John rode to London after paying a visit to Sherlock’s old schoolmate, Victor Trevor. With no place to go in London, Sherrinford stays over at 221B Baker Street. This is what happens on his first night at Baker Street...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut!

**Author's Note:**

> Because Sherry really needs to get an upgrade from his current ‘plot device’ status into full-blown narrative, okay? This is my first Sherlock fanfic, I know very little about SACD’s original Sherrinford Holmes, this was written in ~4 hours with approx. an hour of editing because I was packing for moving, and English may or may not be my first language. Please be gentle. *Immediately goes into exile*

Sherrinford Holmes pressed the pillow onto his ear as hard as he could. He was grateful that the person who previously occupied this room preferred sleeping with stacks of thinner, bendable pillows to the buff, puffy, hard, cushion-like sleeping pillows that are always impossible to bend. He normally preferred the latter to sleep on, but not tonight. Tonight he was happy that he didn’t have those. So, he wrapped the pillow around the back of his head, each end covering an ear.

Sherlock was out in the living room, on his armchair, playing his violin... And the sound of it was driving Sherry insane, making it impossible for him to sleep despite his drowsiness. It wasn’t grating, and it wasn’t even necessarily loud. Just that it felt piercing. It felt like he his head was being punctured by a million needles that intravenously pumped an anxiety-inducing substance into his brain that made him uneasy. It reminded him an exploitation film he saw by accident, traumatised him, and hated for years after.

He lay down sideways, facing the window. Head on the pillow, the other end of the pillow pressed onto his ear with his hand—switching to his lower arm for pressure when his hand got tired or cramped, his free hand clutching the edge of the pillow cover to a calming effect. The pillow drowned-out the horrid screeching and helped him relax enough to rest, but as soon as he managed to close his eyes and doze off, his hands would grow weak, loosening his grip of the pillow, and the violin would return to terrorise him. Eyes wide open.

At least the view was beautiful. With his glasses off, the colours of outdoor nightlights reflecting on raindrops on the window blurred out into out-of-focus blobs of colour. Sherry could never understand why anyone would want to have LASIK procedure: everything was just so much more beautiful when the world was less clear. Clarity is a bad thing. And his glasses allowed him to choose what he wanted to see and didn’t want to see. If a scene on the telly or at the film theatre was too violent, all he needed to do was slip his glasses off and everything was a manageable, bearable blur. Everything was too intense, too irritating, too unnerving, too nerving, too everything, too much.

Since Moriarty drugged him with a temporary memory-wiping experimental drug, APTX-4869, he has only managed to remember a few things about himself before the day he met his brother Sherlock on the train. He was disoriented most of the time, and at times literally physically dazed and dizzy—how convenient that his brother should happen to be travelling with a medical doctor; if this were a fiction story, it would have been too easy. He has a lot of research homework to do about himself and he has been making an effort try to remember who he was, but all he could remember was that he had forgotten his earplugs. Somehow one of the two things he managed to remember was his habit of carrying earplugs in a small plastic case, in addition to an iPod along with a pair of premium earphones for it because the ones included with the mp3 player were too loud and crass-sounding, too big, and the edges hurt his earlobes. The second thing he remembered about his old self being that he preferred to be called ‘Sherry’ and he hated the ‘ford’ part of his name. But he does not remember the pair of Homo sapiens who conceived and named him.

Apart from those two things he was certain of, Sherry ran by instinct and functioned on it: He does not like being separated from his teddy bear that he carries around in his backpack—although if his date of birth on his most-likely-fake identification cards are accurate, he should be too old to feel that way and he also instinctively carries a Swiss Army knife around with him, always ensuring he has a pocket/compartment on his clothing so he can have it on him at all times. Also, oddly enough, he mostly felt like a woman—although a quick check in the loo proved otherwise. Yet, he also found a small agenda and notebook in his backpack, with written pages ripped-out by Moriarty, leaving them empty and void of any personal information… Except for the fact that the agenda and notebook seemed to have been designed and marketed to women: the agenda was light a lavender while the notebook had a watercolour painting of fairies in a garden printed on its cover and the remaining empty pages were a light, milky carnation pink.

It was cold. Sherry thinks either he is sensitive to cold or he lived in a warmer climate before Moriarty snatched him, but if so, why would he be so pale? It didn’t make sense, but Sherry was too tired to over-think it. He decided to sleep with his capuchon sweatshirt over the tee his brother lent him to sleep in. There was a small hole on his sweatshirt where Moriarty destroyed traces of his alma mater, but it was still warm. The hood helped cover his ears which he covered-over with the pillow.

Sherry had a big day ahead of him and an even bigger day behind him. Tomorrow Sherlock was to introduce him to his other brother, Mycroft—and Mycroft's umbrella, and over the weekend Sherlock would take Sherry to meet “Mummy and Daddy”. He hadn’t slept in nearly 23 hours, because it didn’t feel safe to sleep when he was at a train station, unaware of where he really lives—still is, had no idea where he was, and nowhere to go except for the destination printed on the train ticket Moriarty gave him, as soon as he regained consciousness, before dropping him off at the station.

Today he learned from Sherlock that Moriarty is “not your friend” and that he had a brother, Sherlock, and another brother, Mycroft. Frankly, he’s not even sure if he should be trusting this Sherlock, but his doctor friend seemed kind and seemed genuine enough and that made him feel somewhat safer. He had gained two new family members and a new enemy before dusk. But now, the only villain in Sherry’s life was Sherlock.

Earlier today, Sherlock Holmes was his hero. When Sherry couldn’t remember who he was, he caught the man staring at him—he had a window seat but spent most of his time people-watching, while his travel companion with the aisle seat looked out the window. And as soon as they made eye-contact, the taller man—who later turned out to be his very own brother, said, “You don’t know who you are, do you?”

Sherlock then began deducing Sherry only to alarm Sherry with Sherlock's very own alarmed look on his face. Sherry eyed Sherlock typing on his BlackBerry, noticed that he thumbed an upper-middle letter twice followed by a lower-middle letter on his keypad. Sherry always liked watching people type double letters. He found it ‘cute’ somehow.

At the Diogenes Club, Mycroft Holmes, receives a text stating, “I’ve found TTB. —SH”

Sherry continued observing Sherlock’s actions. Sherlock answered his ringing phone as the person at the other end did not bother responding to the text message and simply called the man seated in front of him back. Sherlock’s BlackBerry’s volume was set very loud, and even with the train tracks’ noise in the background, Sherry could still hear someone on the other end, haughtily asking, “What do you _mean_ you’ve found The Third Brother?”

“I mean, I’ve found our brother,” Sherlock responded, to which his travel companion, the doctor, responded to with a look of disbelief. “Would you like to speak to him?”

Sherlock handed the phone over to Sherry. The man on the phone was peculiarly... tender. It was almost as if the haughty person who spoke to Sherlock just seconds earlier was not the same person speaking to Sherry now. It was overwhelming and confusing.

But more confused was the doctor.

Sherlock introduced them, “John, my brother Sherrinford. Sherrinford, John Watson.”

Sherry quickly became fond of John and his wife Mary, whom Sherry met as soon after they arrived in London. They raised their eyebrows funnily when Sherlock commented on Sherry’s “horrendous lack of social skills”, but Sherry somehow sensed that the joke was really on Sherlock. Not himself.

In addition to two new brothers, two new friends, and an enemy, Sherry now had a new acquaintance in Mrs. Hudson whose doting made Sherry nervous and feel awkward, but he knows she means well. Now, only hours later, the one brother he’s met is his de facto archenemy. Tormenting him with his awful violin music.

Worse, he was aroused. And he needed to masturbate badly. The bathroom was just a few steps away and he knew how to make the urge go away fast, in a clinical and efficient manner. He may have learned how to relieve himself properly so it wouldn’t have to matter if he was a virgin, he instinctively and intuitively knew the technicalities despite his blotchy memory. But he could not do it with this horrible noise piercing his ear drums. Tormenting his brain.

All Sherry wanted to do was take-off into the bathroom, masturbate, and then sleep. Quietly.

He so very badly needed the rest. So frustrated, he could just breakdown and cry. He felt himself nearing the verge of hyperventilating, until he decided he would not allow himself to reach that point.

Finally, Sherry hops out of bed, ploughs open the door of John Watson’s old bedroom, storms out, and marches toward Sherlock on his arm chair. Stomps. But Sherlock doesn’t hear the stomping.

Sherry stopped right in front of Sherlock, stood knee-to-knee in front of Sherlock, towering over Sherlock, who carried on playing the wretched thing. Sherry was so angry, he didn’t even care that he was stepping on Sherlock’s dressing gown. Sherlock did not even bother looking up. He merely swiftly swung his left leg over his dressing gown, pulling its hem with his leg from under Sherry’s feet, and continued pushing the bow upwards, causing more noise. This made Sherry’s blood boil.

Sherry’s eyes fixate for about four seconds on how close the fingerboard was to the strings before snapping out of it, taking his eyes off it as staring at it made him want to pull and tear the entire violin apart.

Sherlock played a classical piece Sherry didn’t care for. He couldn’t figure out what kind of music he liked before Moriarty wiped the entire contents of his iPod out, but he knew it wasn’t this. Sherry was not enjoying this. This sounded ugly and taunting and _mean_.

It sounded like a piece originally composed to make one feel melancholy. But mellow it did not make Sherry feel. In fact, it just filled Sherry with anger and an inexplicable sense of hatred and even more sexual frustration. The violin’s torturous screeches were neither sexy nor erotic, they did anything but ‘turn him on’, but they contradictorily had a way of doing this odd thing of exacerbating the frustration while simultaneously being very un-sexual. His brother had lent him a pair of loose pyjama bottoms to sleep in and they were doing a very bad job concealing his erection.

Sherlock pulls his stupid bow downwards.

Sherry inhales in an attempt to maintain composure, sanity, temper.

Sherlock bows upwards.

Angrily plunges his right hand into his sweatshirt’s front pocket and grabs his Swiss Army knife.

Downward again.

Flicks the scissors out and cuts all of Sherlock’s violin strings with a crisp-sounding “snip” only audible to Sherry.


End file.
